


Mannerly Devotion

by TheBoxedStuffDoesntGetBetterWithAge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coda for 1x01 I guess, Complete, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBoxedStuffDoesntGetBetterWithAge/pseuds/TheBoxedStuffDoesntGetBetterWithAge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FIRST FIC I EVER WROTE</p><p>Aftermath of A Study in Pink. John and Sherlock share a moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mannerly Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh, this used to be posted under my first username, which later became my pseudonym, which now no longer is. (I made an account on here just for kicks and never knew I'd actually be posting anything and then the whole thing kind of spiralled. Well, you know how it is.) I shamelessly deleted the bastard, but wanted to keep my works attached to my newly chosen name, so this is what this new post is. If this goes against any fanf(r)ic(k)ing rules, I bow my head in shame.
> 
> Work originally posted on: 31th May 2013 as soletstrythis  
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> 1.) English is not my native tongue, so I appologise to any and all for the harm I may have caused it; 2.) I have no beta. The combination of both is potentially catastrophic, but I do hope I manage to do more good than bad with my story.
> 
> People of the world ... fantasise!

Shot a man for Sherlock! He. Shot. A man. A civilian. A poisonous civilian to be sure, but a man nonetheless. And he _shot_ him. For another man. Not for his country or for some higher purpose. _For Sherlock._ Sherlock, who would probably just chalk it down as some fleeting favour, like picking up the shopping or making tea. He was looking at his flatmate from a distance, playing back the last two days in his head. Christ, he had just met the guy and already they went to a crime scene together (a first for John), texted a murderer (another first and, God, how he hoped it would also be his last), sort of shared a romantic dinner (definitely first one of those with all male participants for John) that turned out to be a dash of a proper dinner and a dash of … well, a stake-out (also a first, if you don't count that one time he hid behind the bushes at Moritz's pub to see if Harry was going to keep her promise and come out sober that evening after seeing her girlfriend sing – of course that was a no), and now he shot a man to prevent his new flatmate from quite possibly committing suicide. Well, from dying in a sort of a strange 50-50 chance game of win – you live, lose – you die that only a person capable of suicide would ever consent to playing, to be more exact. He’d have to talk to Sherlock about that. But, yes, that’s what has happened since they’ve met. And, no, things like that do not happen to people. Especially not boring old vanilla John Watson.  
  
John had to snicker as he saw Sherlock finally accept the orange shock blanket after fighting with the officer for a length of time. He was now sitting in the back of an ambulance. There was no sign of shock whatsoever and even though John had known Sherlock for such a small amount of time, he had a feeling he would never actually get to see it. If anything he seemed puzzled, mewling over the events, no doubt, trying to figure out exactly what had just transpired. It was funny, John thought, how Sherlock’s body language was so explicit to him that it allowed him to read the man from his posture and movements easily, whereas their actual verbal conversation usually brought on a number of confusions. To take the dinner conversation for example - John was just being polite, when he asked Sherlock if he had someone. I mean, the person would probably eventually come to the flat, maybe spend nights at the place, so it would have some extent of impact on his life; it had not been so outlandish to ask. But the other man took it as a come-on. A come-on! As if John were some sort of Don Juan, used to just chatting up the first person he finds attractive. Well, he was actually. And Sherlock was too. Attractive. If one is into that sort of things. Men. Which John wasn't. Ridiculously gorgeous, tall, pale, raven-haired, maddeningly genius men with piercing eyes the colour of the soul and lips of surreal perfection. Which John wasn’t. Surely he wasn’t. Oh, no. No, thank you. Completely dedicated to the muff. He had to chuckle a bit at that. Really, John? Confirming your sexuality to yourself? First signs of schizophrenia, eh? Good show!  
  
In that very moment his eyes locked with Sherlock's soul and it was as clear as day that the blanketed man had just had a revelation that allowed him to know the truth of everything that happened that evening. Huh, that was easier than John thought. No explaining, no strange conversation, great! Sherlock joined him instantly and indicated with a nudge that they should be off. They agreed on Chinese food and even had a terrifically ironic chat to confirm the events unfolded. Brilliant! They were about to go merily on their way when John saw the terrifying man, who had also added to the eventfulness of his day by kidnaping him for a while, seemingly greeting Sherlock with something between a smile and a frown. _His brother?!_ What the hell? That was _his brother_? The fact just could not sit with him properly. Then again, nothing about this man was really conventional, so why on Earth should he have any sort of a traditional relationship with his sibling. It would be too weird. Wait, they call their mother _Mummy_? Oh, God. There was a whole box of childhood trauma that John wasn’t ready to open just yet. Sherlock rapidly brushed his brother off and John was more than happy to follow him.  
  
After a quick buzzing dinner they were sitting in a cab still basking in adrenaline. They were both focusing intensely on the scenery right behind their seperate windows, when the taxi driver had to break hard and swerve to the left to avoid an obviously inebriated biker who would otherwise have rather likely taken over the glamorous functions of a hood ornament. "Sorry," he indicated with his eyes to the men in the back who tumbled over a bit, Sherlock now lying splattered over John. "Uhm, yes, we'll be alright," John said not even trying to hide his amusement as a flock of curls started to gather themselves up from his lap. Sherlock was now sitting right next to John and something seemed to have changed. Something in the air for sure, as a slightly more poetic person might remark, and something else, definitely more concrete. Sherlock’s hand stayed on John's. Yes, that was it. It stayed on John's just sitting there. John took the fact in, cleared his thoughts, cleared his throat, and looked up at Sherlock, catching his eyes. Sherlock gave him a look of sheer confidence, communicating to him that this was what needed to be happening right then and there. And to his own great surprise, John just looked back through his window and accepted it. He’d always accept silent statements like that from Sherlock and he knew it. Their trust was almost instinctive.  
  
It's OK. It's perfectly OK. Sherlock has been through some excitement none the less. He knew what John did for him. Probably couldn’t make much sense of it, as it was pretty much unfathomable. Outrageous and stark mad for most people even. But he assumed that in Sherlock’s head it would be chalked down as good. He also was probably analysing the events and maybe, just maybe, he did realise on some level that what he was completely ready to do and would have definitely done, were it not for John and his gun, might not have been a clever thing to do. That just maybe his cherishing his want to know more than his own life really was a bit not good. Or maybe that was just John hoping. But the taller man's hand on his was nothing. It was normal under the circumstances.  
  
The sensation had just gone from pleasant to simply comfortable (dismissible even), when something John would never have thought would happen, happened. Sherlock's thumb slipped under John's hand and trailed a curve inside his palm. The caress sent tingles through the whole of John's body and he automatically had to swallow a lump in his throat that, and of that John was sure, had not been there just a moment ago. It took all he had to keep his eyes fixed on the cityscape outside. Sherlock's thumb took a long pause and then started again. Soon all of his other fingers joined in caressing John's hand, slowly and gently. Sherlock's thumb grazed over his wrist and up his underarm, then returned back to its original position and just stood there. John chanced a side-glance to his companion's profile and noticed that Sherlock was perhaps a bit flushed, but showed no other signs of excitement. Also, he was keeping his eyes firmly focused on the outside.  
  
Sherlock's hand seemed to have stopped moving and John decided he did not like that. Not giving a moment's pause to think about the situation and its implications he gently squeezed the detective's hand in a sign of encouragement for him to continue doing whatever the hell it was that he had been doing. It was enough. Sherlock responded as if John's squeeze had lifted up a sole tiny paddle holding back a flood, trailing curious lines with his sensitive violinist's fingers, and John chose to join him in this dance of fingers and palms taking them to that fuzzy land of warm and fluffy where the edges of reality start to blur, disappear even. The sensation was literally out of this world. By now they had both forgotten about the outside and have started using the window-glass to stare at the other's reflection, both of them in turn just displaying their own and enjoying the other’s pleasure.  
  
All of a sudden the cab came to a halt. Sherlock jumped up with a start abruptly retracting his hand and literally ran up to the door with a "Good night, John" and before John was able to follow he was already up the stairs and gone. John paid the driver, then slowly made his own way into the flat, still wondering at the fact he was able to do that without the help of his cane. Another miraculous thing Sherlock has managed to achieve. The latest one being to make John feel better, more wanted, than he had ever felt in his entire life with the simple touch of a hand.  
  
He sat down in his chair to mull over the events that had just transpired. Judging by the sound of the footsteps coming from the back room, Sherlock was trying to get to the bottom of something as well. The only way he could even begin to grasp the closing events of the evening, would be to go and face the other man, thus risking the loss of the incredible feeling that was warming up in and around him like a plush blanket. John did not like that idea, so he decided to make himself a cup of tea and keep busy by writing up the events leading up to that final cab ride on his blog. He was just about done, when he finally heard that Sherlock in his room had also stopped with the annoying pacing around and had settled in bed. A fine idea, John thought wanting of his own bed.  
  
In the morning Sherlock was already up and very nervous as John sat down with a cuppa and the paper. Sherlock mentioned the blog and started complaining about the way John had described the case and its solving, allegedly romanticising Sherlock, obscuring the pure scientific manner of things and also blatantly sharing private details about his flatmate, such as matters that would be considered lack of knowledge in the everyday world. "It's not important, John!" Sherlock claimed. "But it's the solar system!" was John's shocked reply. "Exactly! Which means that it is of no direct consequence to my work. Hence, I've deleted it." Now this was something… "Deleted it?" John asked, "What like files from a computer?" "Exactly like that, if you feel the need to make analogies. I only store vital information in my brain, which I keep neatly stacked, so that with a sufficient amount of concentration I can access it rather easily at any time." "I see. And what gets chucked to the bins from that head of yours, then?" "Oh, most things. Anything unnecessary." "So, what, trivia, day-to-day events, _feelings_..." "Yes, all of that." "Ahem, yeah, that's … uhm great. Practical, I guess. You do know other people _can't_ do that, right?" "I am very much aware. That's what makes them so inefficient." "Right…" John decided to just put an end to that conversation then and there. It was obviously leading nowhere. Also he had known Sherlock for merely 3 days, which in all fairness gave him no ground to start changing his life philosophies.  
  
So, Sherlock had definitely deleted last night. There was not even the slightest sign of anything out of the ordinary transpiring between them. For all John knew, he might have even deleted the fact that John shot that guy for him. Though that might be considered valuable information; knowing you have a barmy flatmate that is willing to kill people to protect you. (Even though it was your own irresponsibility that got you into danger in the first place and you deserve to be taught a lesson.) Anyway, Sherlock had deleted their moment. And John suddenly realised he was fine with it. As opposed to Sherlock, he's going to make a tiny little shrine for it in his brain, lock it in there and keep it forever as a memory of that one most intimate moment he ever shared with anyone in his entire life. Leave it to life's sense of irony that it should happen with a human pretending to be a computer. John now had proof that was absolute rubbish.  
  
He however was not fine at all with being around Sherlock when the man was apparently having some sort of a childish fit. He needed some air, so he left the sulking man-child to his, well, sulking, and headed out. Sherlock cast one eye on John as he noticed he went quiet and then flipped his head again to keep facing the back of the sofa. He closed his eyes and concentrated until he was virtually browsing through the corridors of his mind palace. He wanted to see the work he had done last night, cataloguing "A Study in Pink" as John decided to banally call it. He also wanted to check something else. He contentedly returned the data to the folder and continued to walk further down along the shelves. At their end were a series of doors. Sherlock passed the first one with the sign Childhood on it and a number of further ones, until he stopped in front of a sturdy shiny door, looking as if it had been newly installed, carrying a sign that read in giant red letters Doctor John Watson. He opened the door to check the room behind it. The space should be sufficient for now, though he already had an idea where and how to build an extension when needed. A whole compartment had already been filled with information about this interesting man, but Sherlock reached down to look for something specific. Ah, there it was. A warm feeling came over him as he replayed the taxi-ride home to his mind's eye. How John hadn't retracted his arm either, the way he only realised in hindsight that his own hand had started tracing lines inside John’s palm and John did not stop him, how he even squeezed his, when Sherlock had just started to convince himself to stop it - whatever it was -, how their eyes locked in their reflections and how Sherlock had felt absolutely in place for the first time in his life. He put the data back carefully and left the room, making sure to close the door securely as he stepped out.  
  
He approached the window just in time to see John cross the street. Yes, yes, just scurry off to Sarah's, why don't you, you utterly incomprehensible man. Run away and leave me alone in this hateful quiet. John's stride was determined and confident. Yet again he found himself completely baffled by that alien flatmate of his, though, in that precise moment, irritated and annoyed were the two more proper adjectives to describe his state. He was definitely going to keep that shrine shiny as hell checking back on it... John's room would definitely be his favourite room, Sherlock thought, before he turned back to face the sitting room.


End file.
